Becca is yet another member that has returned to us, and was sorely missed in her absence. As much a part of the family as though she'd been here from the very beginning. She's always welcoming, always kind and supportive, and most importantly ready to offer all the magical feels-breaking plots you could ever ask for. So don't forget to show her your love next time you see her!

Welcome to ENDLESS DIAMOND SKY! We are an animation personified site set both in the animated world and present day San Francisco. A terrible darkness is spreading through the animated realm, driving everyone from their homes and into unknown territory that we know as reality. Now they find themselves at a crossroads: do they fight for their world or do they turn their back on it and make San Francisco their home? What will you choose?

setting san francisco, calif. 2018

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EDS is known to cause death by soul-crushing feels. Don't forget your feels bucket.

He was very good at stupid decisions. In fact it could probably be considered a staple of his personality. It wasn't that he was inherently an idiot, no matter how dumb he liked to think he was, Chris was rather intelligent. He simply had no sense of personal safety and self-preservation. His mouth was always running even when it shouldn't be, and he enjoyed getting into fights even if it was plainly obvious that he couldn't possibly win them. While this hadn't killed him just yet, it had gotten him pretty damn close to death's door. How many fights had he gotten himself into in the past year alone? How many hospital visits had he been forced to make? He'd lost count somewhere, but his body was keeping a nice running tally for him either case. Signs of long-time abuse littering his skin and x-rays; healed fractures, fading scars. The stab wound in his torso would be the newest addition to his long list of injuries, and possibly the worst he'd had in a long time. He'd been in enough ambulances and hospital rooms to know when something was serious. Even if he joked and laughed about it the entire trip to the hospital, and teased the hot nurses when they gave him the least bit of attention. A flurry of activity had built up around him as doctors raced to patch up the wound before the bleeding got any worse, unaware that his lack of pain wasn't a symptom of the damage.

He'd denied morphine and any other pain medication, even went so far as to tell them that he was allergic to anesthesia. A blatant lie if there had ever been one. Honestly? He hated hospitals, but he hated being under the influence of something in a hospital even worse. The idea of the world slipping away from him left a sour taste in his mouth, and while looking up to see the doctors and nurses rushing back and forth around him brought to mind some unpleasant memories- nobody said he actually had to look. He'd let the world fade as they'd laid him out on the operating table. The only senses still active being his sense of hearing and his sense of taste; even smell was shut off to avoid the strong over-clean hospital stink. The coiling smell of sickness and antiseptic that was just as unwelcome as looking up into the eyes of a random nurse or doctor with half their face covered. He could hear them working, knew that they'd numbed the area with Novocaine, but they still marveled at his lack of reaction. The knife wound had missed anything vital but it had caused some damage that would have been a lot worse had he attempted to pull it out ( or let his attacker yank it free ) in the alley way.

Once the surgery was done and he was 'fixed' he wanted out. He'd tried at least twice already to get them to discharge him, and a third time to outright escape. Especially after the cops showed up to ask him questions about the attack and what the guy looked like. He had no problems describing the asshole down to the smell of his clothes, but he also didn't want to be laying around in case the cops realized he was...well, himself. It's not like he exactly had a good track record with them. He'd been lucky that this particular pair hadn't recognized him on site or been the ones who usually get sent to his hospital calls to get a statement. They'd left without a fuss, but Chris couldn't help but feel like the walls were closing in on him.

"C'mon please, I feel great. I can go." Not that he felt anything at all. Even the lingering fear at realizing he almost died was gone. All he felt was the blissful numbness of having his sense of touch turned off but he knew that that would only last so long. Eventually he'd forget why he had it off in the first place and he'd get a painful reminder that he had a pretty large-ass knife shoved just north of one of his kidneys.

Considering how often he was in this situation it was only a matter of time before he had to put someone on his emergency contacts. He recognized Jem's footsteps before he heard her voice, and couldn't help but shrink himself down on the bed just a little bit. One hand pressing over his wounded side as thought that would somehow hide the thick bandages wrapped around his torso. "He's lucky, the knife just barely missed any vital organs. A little more in any direction." He could hear the doctor on the other side of the door and couldn't help rolling his eyes, almost calling out bullshit as he did. "He keeps trying to leave, maybe you can convince him to stay? His stitches could burst and make things worse if he doesn't get bed rest."

A groan, before he perked up as Jem finally entered the room. "I told them not to call you." Brows furrowing, "I'm fine, okay? They just won't let me leave." Had he almost died? Technically. He was fine now, the only problem he had was that he hated hospitals and the fact that he was stuck here just made his anxiety grow stronger. The exact reason he wasn't comfortable in a hospital might be locked somewhere in the back of his mind where memories are fuzzy and almost non-existent, but the feeling they caused wasn't. It was present and at the forefront of everything, causing a growing sense of discomfort and unease that made him shift in his bed.

As much as Jem would have liked to say she was surprised when she got the call from the hospital, she wasn’t. Even from the start, if she slowed down long enough to think about what she and her partner in crime were doing with their lives, she knew that their paths were not sustainable, that they couldn’t keep going this way without some kind of accident. It wasn’t something that she thought of often – in fact, it was the sort of thing she had tucked deep in her subconscious as she continued to do exactly the sort of thing that could get her into trouble – but somehow she had always known that the more risks they took, the closer they came to disaster. They both lived the sort of lifestyle that made them feel like they were on top of the world, invincible; they drank and partied and bedded whoever they wanted whenever they wanted. They rode Jem’s motorcycle too fast down darkened streets without helmets, Chris’ hands wandering over Jem’s body as she took turns too sharply and let the rush of adrenaline take her. Chris readjusted his senses however he wanted, to tune out the negative and accentuate whatever felt good, whatever that was in the moment. Jem removed whatever emotions she didn’t want to feel and kept them bottled in the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror, carefully labeled and organized, but quickly pushed from her mind once the deed was done. She had reached the point where, when the feeling of guilt was anything more than a dull ache, it felt unbearable, overwhelming – the first and most prominent sign of addiction that Jem had been ignoring for entirely too long. Somewhere, deep inside, her body was screaming for a change, for her to listen and try, and she’d ignored it far too long.

Perhaps that’s what the call from the hospital was – a wake up call. Though she’d known all along something like this would happen to either her or Chris, she hadn’t been directly confronted with that thought until now. Until the nurse told her in a calm, flat voice that Chris was in surgery for a stab wound to his torso and that he’d lost a lot of blood, and, for a moment, she had gone completely numb, her fingers nearly releasing her phone to clatter to the floor as she began to shake. Was it shock? Yes. But was she really surprised? No. It was the thought of it that terrified her – the thought of Chris’ face, the features that she was so familiar with, always so full of life, going blank and white. The hands that had touched her and held her, that she’d slapped away some days and held in her own others, going cold. The knowledge that he would turn off his sense of touch and smile all the way til the end, never knowing how close he was to death until it took him. God, she hated him and his power – he could ignore anything he wanted to, including the pain that was supposed to signal danger, and she was relieved that someone must have called an ambulance for him, knowing that he wouldn’t have taken the wound seriously unless he had to. And what if he’d tried to come home? Would he have made it? She suddenly realized that she wouldn’t have thought much of his absence for the first couple of days. Both of them had had multi-night stands that kept them too occupied to contact the other, and she would have simply assumed someone interesting had picked him up. The truth would be that he was lying dead somewhere in the city, and she wouldn’t have even thought to look for him until it was entirely too late.

Did she love him? The question seemed moot at this point, even stupid as she scrambled to find her motorcycle keys and make her way to the hospital, heart racing, blinking away tears that held both fear and anger in tiny silver packages. Of course she loved him, that six foot two inch lump of cockiness and kinks. He was a fucking idiot, but he was her fucking idiot, and she loved him in the only way she knew how. Her love was not soft, all sharp edges and cutting words, punches on the arm and well-aimed insults, but it was love nonetheless, and in this moment she was terrified. She raced to the hospital, parked her bike, and, for once, didn’t even fix her hair as she ran, helmet tucked under her arm, up to the front desk. “Where is he? Where’s Chris?” she demanded, her voice sounding higher and more uncertain than usual, but she didn’t care. The nurses calm tones were infuriating, and part of her just wanted to shake them and scream, but she resisted as best she could, focusing instead on giving them the ID they asked for and following their instructions on how to get to Chris’ room. She wanted to see him immediately, but his doctor stopped her at the door, and she chewed on her lip as he explained the situation. She was supposed to convince him to stay where he was, because apparently he’d been trying to escape since he got out of surgery. “Oh, he won’t be leaving,” she replied, anger flaring in her chest at this news. “I’ll make sure of that.”

If the doctor said anything more after that, it was lost on her as she threw open the door and rushed in, throwing her helmet unceremoniously into a chair. “You’re fine?! Really?! What the fuck, Chris – you’re a fucking idiot!” She could feel the tears prickling the backs of her eyes as she made her way to the side of his bed, eyes settling on the bandages that covered his wound. She wanted to slap him so much, but she knew it was useless – he would have turned off his sense of touch the minute the blade cut through his flesh, and he wouldn’t turn it back on now. “You could have died! You had to have surgery to patch everything up, and if that knife had moved it could have cut into an organ! You are not fine!” She noticed then that a few tears had escaped down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with a quick, rough swipe of her hand. She rarely cried, but she couldn’t help it – memories of losing her parents swept through her, and she knew she could have lost Chris, her best friend. She wanted to say more, but suddenly she didn’t know what – she was losing steam as she looked down at him, so pathetic and bandaged in the bed before her. She let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob, punching him carefully in the shoulder. “You could have died, you fucking idiot,” she repeated again, her strength failing her as she crumpled against him, sitting on the edge of his bed and folding across him, pressing her forehead against his chest. “You could have died…” ( And I could have lost you. )

He's so used to them just brushing things off. Sure this particular incident might have been marginally more serious than anything he'd gotten himself into before, but that never seemed to fully register. It was a side effect of his powers in a lot of ways. Without any pain he had no measure of what was serious and what wasn't in terms of his own body. While he couldn't blame all his reckless behaviors on the mutation that allowed him to shuffle through his senses. His nonchalance in the current situation had a lot to do with the fact that he just couldn't feel any pain. Even though he knew he was shutting off his sense of touch, every human instinct told him he was fine. After all pain was there for a reason. It was a warning to draw your hand away from a hot stove, or a signal that something was wrong. If you didn't feel pain at all...well then, nothing had to be wrong, right? It was bullshit and he knew it. The fact that he was in a hospital room and the doctors seemed adamant that he stay in that room was proof enough. Something was very very wrong, and the fact that he didn't feel it at all shouldn't have changed that.

Then she had to come in like that and the world seemed to shift to somewhere unpleasant. Up until Jem burst through the door he'd been living in a bubble of denial. One that had gone up the instant he felt the knife break skin. He was fine if only because to be anything else was too terrifying. He didn't want to think that he'd almost just died in an alleyway outside of a shitty bar. He didn't want to think about the fact that if he hadn't scared the guy off the knife would have gotten yanked out and the damage could have been a lot worse. Even then he'd come very close to bleeding out and if that girl hadn't found him when she did...well. There was a brief, unpleasant flash of lying on a metal slab in the morgue. One that made his hands move up to his chest where the largest scar rested. One look at her face and the sound of her voice made him almost want to just shut off completely. Anything to protect the wall he'd built between himself and all the unpleasant things in the world. That was another thing about being able to tune out your own senses...his tolerance for things was shit. If he didn't like something he simply tuned it out. Half the time he didn't even need to think about it, it had become so ingrained in him that it was simply reflex now. The first spark of pain and touch shut down. The first hint of an unpleasant smell and suddenly he couldn't smell at all. The same went for all of his senses.

It'd take nothing at all to just...go offline.

Except it was too late for that. The bubble was popped. The imminent danger he'd been avoiding loomed big and foreboding in the small hospital room. The expression on his face faltered and then finally fell as he shrank as deep as the shallow mattress would allow. Too shocked by the sight of her concerned rage to switch his senses off in an attempt to block everything out. They were so reckless in everything they did that it was hard sometimes to realize that there was a reason they stuck together. That he could lie to himself all he wanted but he did care about her and she cared about him. Sure it was in a fucked up sort of way half the time but her concern was more than enough to bring everything home. Reality crashing down around him and making his entire body deflate into the bed.

For the moment all Chris could do was sit in awed silence. Which was probably for the best since he felt like she needed to get all that out. Let her words run their course, and give him time to process. His own silence was uncharacteristic to say the least and it made him feel odd...like he should say or do something. Especially when she curled up on the bed next to him.

One hand moving to brush at her hair, he sucked in a momentary breath then shifted his senses once more. The result was instantaneous; he could feel pain red hot and throbbing from the wound in his side for the first time. It made him bite back a hiss as he tried to focus on her instead. The weight of her against his chest, the softness of her hair under his fingertips. "Ow, ow, ow-" he muttered, wincing and trying to shift only to freeze as it caused a fresh wave of pain to cycle through.

"But I didn't die." He muttered, and he wondered if he felt scared now? The lady in the alleyway said he'd smelled of fear...whatever that meant. "I'm alive. I'm here. I'm okay." Was the fear still there? He hoped not. Letting his head fall back on the pillows, he closed his eyes. Pain. He didn't like pain. He hated it, but he wanted to take comfort in the fact that she was so close and he couldn't do that if he had everything shut down. Even if to anyone else giving up the ability to not feel pain in favor of being able to touch someone's hair or feel the warmth of their skin hardly seemed like a fair trade.

"I'm sorry." He said finally, and because even now he couldn't find it in himself to be a hundred percent serious, he peeked down at her. "Not that we both didn't already know I'm an idiot."

Denial had been a common thread in their relationship since the beginning. It was one of the things that had bound them together in the first place, the complete and utter denial that anything was wrong in their lives, that they could be anything except bright and upbeat and ready to party. Problems were easier if they were simply ignored or shoved into dark corners – or, in Jem’s case, bottled and kept behind the bathroom mirror for safe keeping. Alcohol would numb the space left behind by those little inconveniences and push them further from her mind until they were hardly a blip on her radar, and a good lay would toss everything else out the window and shrink the world to just skin against skin and the sounds falling from her lips. It was easier that way, to believe that everything was fine, and if she never slowed down long enough to think about everything she had hidden away, all the guilt and anger and grief that she had drawn from herself to keep from falling apart, she would never have to worry about a thing. Chris, she knew, was the same way; it was easy to ignore things he couldn’t see or hear or feel, and that made it a cinch to manage the hand they’d been dealt. After all, at the heart of it all, what were they? Two lost young people who had given themselves over to their desires to drown out everything in the world that had sought to hurt them or cut them down. They came from a world where they were feared and hated and used for the powers they had been born with, sometimes even sliced open and toyed with like guinea pigs in cruel science experiments. They were weapons of war, side show acts, not people. Jem saw the effects of this world most clearly in the two men who mattered to her most in the world – in the Y shaped scar on Chris’ chest, in Finn’s stories of war – and if she’d cared to turn her sights inward, she would have seen it in herself too. In her inability to get truly close to people, in her fear of her own emotions, in her aversion to settling down in a single spot for too long. Their world had broken them, and if a bottle of whiskey could make that bitter pill go down more easily, then who could blame them for trying?

No one had to face their demons if they never talked about them. Out of sight, out of mind. If Chris’ injuries had been less severe, they could have just as easily laughed this incident off. A black eye and a punch in the ribs would warrant an affectionate jab on the arm from Jem as she joked that Chris should probably learn some self defense because not everyone was rough with him to get him off. Bruises were nothing to the two of them, who were known for tossing each other around for pleasure and proudly showing off the results the next day. But this? This was so much more. This was a knife to the chest, a literal hole in her favorite fuck buddy, and an emergency surgery to patch him up. They could both take a beating like the scrappy little shits they were, but neither of them had powers that would save them from mortal wounds. Chris’ could only put him into a happy state of denial until his inevitable end – which seemed to be exactly what he was content to do at this time. It was clear from the moment she stepped into the room that he had turned off his sense of touch, a power which was dangerously superior to the painkillers the hospital would have tried to dose him with. Nobody grinned that way after getting stabbed when they could feel it, and Jem knew Chris enough to know that he wouldn’t suffer any extreme physical pain without intervention with his powers. Could she blame him for this? Absolutely not. But seeing him there in that bed, bandaged and broken and still as cocky as ever, she knew they couldn’t go on this way. He could pretend that nothing had happened, that he could step out of the hospital and right back into the life they knew together, booze and parties and all, but she couldn’t. She knew as she looked down at him, her anger wearing off into fear that made her hands shake, that she wouldn’t forget this day. She wouldn’t forget this image of him, or the moment she’d gotten the call from the hospital. She was lucky he wasn’t dead.

She could have easily removed these emotions. Stood there and closed her eyes and drawn the fear and anger from herself until she was just as numb as Chris was now. Perhaps then she could laugh and joke with him about how he’d almost died. About how he’d almost left her behind. But she wouldn’t. For once, she embraced these things, and she lit into him until her strength failed her and she found herself sitting on the edge of his bed, curled into his chest, biting back tears. It was uncharacteristic for her to be so vulnerable, to confess that she cared so deeply that she would fall into his arms in this way, but she didn’t care. She pressed her forehead to the bare skin of his chest above the collar of his hospital gown and closed her eyes tightly, letting his warmth chase away her fears – from the way he lay still for a moment, she knew she had surprised him with this portion of her outburst, but she didn’t care. She wanted to be close to him and he was stuck in a hospital bed so he would just have to deal with it. She was surprised to feel his fingers in her hair a moment later, small gesture of comfort, and she took a breath, inhaling the familiar smell of his skin.

He winced and froze, verbalizing his pain, and Jem instinctively lifted herself an inch from his chest with a gasp. “Shit, sorry –“ she said, trailing off when she realized exactly what it meant for Chris to express pain in the first place. She stared down at him in surprise, a frown touching her features – sure, she had yelled at him, but she hadn’t expected him to turn his sense of touch back on. Why? His fingers were still in her hair, even as a fresh wave of pain washed through him; maybe there was something to be said about taking the bad to feel the good. She turned her attention to the emotions he was feeling. Maybe she couldn’t help with the physical pain, but she could do what she knew best and try to help with the emotions. She didn’t really want him to suffer, no matter how furious she was with him, and anyway she knew he’d put on a brave face even if it was bad so they wouldn’t have to talk about it later. But she knew. Deep down, he was afraid – she could feel it on him, whether it was residual from the incident itself or fresh, as though he was beginning to realize the severity of his situation. And though she’d never admit it, it broke her heart. He spoke, and she quickly returned to her senses. “Yeah, you’re fucking lucky,” she muttered in response, resting her chin on his chest. “You have two EMTs, a surgeon, and several nurses to thank for that. And me, because I could kill you for scaring me like this.” She was burning herself out already, comforted by his presence and his fingers tangled in her hair, and she fell silent, for once unsure of what else to say. She could make another joke, but somehow it felt better to be quiet and just take in the events of the day. Accept what he’d said – he would be okay.

She hadn’t expected an apology. They rarely apologized to each other for anything, and when they did it was usually sarcastic, but this felt real. Honest – even if it was quickly followed by a dry joke. They couldn’t be too honest with each other, after all, or they’d have to admit they liked each other in the first place. Still, his apology brought the ghost of a genuine smile to her lips, and a humorless laugh followed suit as she shifted a little, careful not to jostle him. “Yeah, well, some of us prefer our idiots alive. If anyone’s going to kill you, it’ll be me and I’m not finished with you yet. I can’t be expected to support my lavish lifestyle by myself.” She paused a moment, then sat up quickly, nudging his arm lightly and carefully edging onto the bed beside him. “Move over, you dumb bitch. Make room.” Was she supposed to move the stabbing victim? Probably not. Did she care? Not really. Let the nurses yell at her – she wouldn’t budge. She didn’t even take off her shoes before she kicked her feet up and laid down beside him, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. Maybe they weren’t good at verbal support and Jem had never been good at snuggling or whatever, but this…this she could do. She lay in silence for a few moments, looking around at things from his perspective. “Nice setup you have here. Are the nurses hot?”

It was so incredibly easy to just not give a fuck about anything. A few drinks here, a couple of drugs there and all your problems felt like they belonged to someone else. The fact that he could essentially disconnect from his own body certainly didn't help matters much in that regard. Let someone else worry about bodily injuries and pain, another version of himself that actually cared about mortality. He'd learned a long time ago that things were better left ignored if they dared caused any sort of problem. A fact of life that wasn't just the addictions clouding his brain but an aspect of survival. There was a reason he'd made it this long...and that reason was that he didn't care. He didn't think about anyone but himself, and blocked out whatever wasn't necessary. He lived his life the same way he'd lived it when he'd been couch surfing after ditching the farm. With no ties to anything or anyone, a wayward vagabond with the clothes on his back and the powers he'd honed over the years. What did it matter if that wasn't exactly the truth anymore? Had he really changed so much in the last couple of years? He'd never bothered to look at the differences before because he'd never noticed they were there. Looks like splotchy skin wasn't the only thing the harsh florescent hospital lights were capable of revealing. Of all the backwards ass places and situations for him to realize he did give some level of a damn.

He's not sure what triggered it. Whether it was seeing her so vulnerable, or the sudden dawning realization of his near-death experience, but Chris was coming to realize he did care. He cared about not-dying, he cared about their stupid apartment, and he cared about her specifically. Sure it probably wasn't as profound a feeling as Love might have been, but it had its own weight. Maybe a regular not-emotionally-constipated person might have been able to carry it better. As it stood it kind of felt like a giant boulder had rolled off of an invisible cliff and landed square on his chest. Like she wasn't the only person laying across him, and even though he could still breathe he felt almost trapped. He'd almost died. He'd almost been gone. He'd fucked up big time. There were truths he didn't want to face and parts of himself he didn't feel like self-analyzing right now. Yet no matter where he turned it felt like all of that was staring him in the face.

God he wished he could just- shut down right now. His emotions, his senses, just everything. Maybe he should have. To prove to himself that he really didn't care at all, but he couldn't. She was here and he'd be lying if he said that he hadn't thought about her almost nonstop since they'd picked him up off the floor and put him into the ambulance. "Please don't kill me. At least give it a day, one person a night is more than enough for me." Funny, he didn't even remember what he'd done to piss the guy off. It's like every moment leading up to the knife sliding into his chest had been blurred out by an eraser. It was a common theme in his life now that he thought about it. He didn't remember most nights anymore and especially not the ones that left him bruised and battered the next morning.

The command to move was met with momentary resistance. "Hey now, at least say please. Goddamn." Touch was off again, flicked like a switch in the back of his mind that he hardly even noticed anymore. A knee jerk reaction as he pushed himself up off the bed enough to scoot over. Not exactly the roomiest place in the world especially for two people, but hey he liked being close. Once she'd settled in next to him, he relaxed back against his pillows. Taking a few slow and even breathes before cautiously letting touch drift back to normal. The pain was still there and excruciating enough to make his eyes water and his teeth sink into his bottom lip. Shit. Why was he doing this aga- oh, right. He could focus on her hand in his. That's right. He was actually a sap.

"Eh it's alright." A slight shrug, that he instantly regretted. "There's one nurse that's at least an 8 but he's not mine." He nodded towards the door, "I see him running around out there all the time." Tall, dark, vaguely handsome. His own nurses were tired looking middle aged woman who looked at him with all the disapproval he was sure his aunt would have afforded his behavior were she still alive to see it. They probably wouldn't approve of having someone in his bed considering he'd just come out of surgery not that long ago, but they could fuck off to be honest. It's not like they were even doing anything.

Letting his head fall back he closed his eyes. "Hey um- do you see the painkiller button around there?" A nervous laugh through clenched teeth, ."Might as well get drugged up while I'm here right?" Turn off. Turn off. Turn off. Nope. He can't. It's a point of pride now- it's something he has to do. If he's going to sit there acting like he's about to reevaluate his entire existence then he has to face the consequences of that. ( You think you've changed Chris? Alright. Prove it. ) He's got no pain tolerance anymore. That's the problem. He's pretty sure a paper cut would have knocked him on his ass now if he were to feel it without immediately shutting off his senses. "Who knew getting stabbed hurt like a bitch"